


day of the wolf

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Where The Crossroads Meet [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Morality, F/M, part completion, part repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: It’s the desperate note in her brother’s voice as her name slides off his lips with the same ease with which he lifts her half-limp hand. Rough skin scratches against hers, the touch warm and gentle. “Open your eyes, Lya.” The voice is far off, somewhat hoarse. It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask him if in Robert’s camp men are fed rocks.Death stalks at every corner and Lyanna, in her attempts to avoid this unwanted companion, shies from very little.  AU! The many lives and sins of Lyanna Stark.





	day of the wolf

It’s the desperate note in her brother’s voice as her name slides off his lips with the same ease with which he lifts her half-limp hand. Rough skin scratches against hers, the touch warm and gentle. “Open your eyes, Lya.” The voice is far off, somewhat hoarse. It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask him if in Robert’s camp men are fed rocks.

This is not at all the manner in which she remembers him.

But the again, she is likely not as he remembers her. With one last burst of strength she managed to part her lids just slightly. Enough for the shadow before her eyes to morph into something almost-human. The distorted image lasts for a mere moments before darkness takes over again and she simply allows it to wash over her.

Hearing is still there. Ned, some would argue the very best of the Stark line, continues to promise her world and deep seas and mountains in exchange for a few words.

All that she can say, however, dwindles to just a couple, “Promise me.”

Somewhere far off a child is crying. The sharp sounds are not yet words, but the heart knows what it knows. Too weary to reply, however, Lyanna sinks into the comforting lightless abyss awaiting.

* * *

 

It’s a sharp pain perforating her stomach that calls her to. Lyanna opens her eyes with a sound of pain and the glaring flame of the candle held before her face makes her squint. It’s too bright, too warm and much too close.

“The wax,” a voice cries out just as a drop of hot, molten beeswax falls onto her chin. She gives a start but otherwise her whole body is much too frail to move. Soft hands push away at wayward strands of hair. She hears a familiar voice speaking but fails to make out the words.

Somehow, she falls back into a heavy sleep fraught with bits and pieces of colour-filled visions and inviting sounds. But try as she might, Lyanna can piece none of it together. The blue roses. An angry face. One hand held out. Warm whispers in her ear. The promise of forever. A drop of blood hits the cool flagstone.

When next she wakes, diffuse light is pouring through the high lancet, bathing the bedchamber in its muted glow. Confusion strikes without a hint of mercy when glancing at her hands, Lyanna a can observe but slight fingers wrapped in cloth.

Her side burns and there is the taste of something acrid in her mouth.

Was it all a dream?

Grabbing hold of thick furs, she drags them off her body and observes the short legs and thick nightdress. This is not Dorne. Is it possible that it was all some manner of night terror? A warning, might be. Whatever the case, there is not a bit of sand in sight, a chill is creeping in and the distinctly familiar bedchamber of her childhood days surrounds her.

This is Winterfell. She is home.

Lyanna falls back against the pillows and closes her eyes. Her mind is reeling, filled with all sorts of thoughts. But as they die down, for in the end they do, they leave behind uncertainty.

In the end, she decides that it hardly matters whether it was a night terror or not because Benjen is in her bed, wrapping an arm around her waist, asking for forgiveness. “I did not know you would hit your head.”

She forgives him. Mostly because Benjen has that look on his face, that look she can never refuse.

The rest of it, her life, unfolds in a familiar manner. She bangs sticks with her brother in the godswood and rides her horse so hard it regularly throws shoes off.

Her mother dies during a cold winter’s night. This is again something which Lyanna expects. As to why; she simply knows, there is not any other explanation she can find.

Father pulls further and further into himself and finds good company in their maester.

When they tell Lyanna is shall wed Robert Baratheon, she gives a smile and a nod. _A child cries lustily, chubby fists wrapped around her finger._ She bids farewell to the boy and promises herself that she won’t allow the night terror to come true.

And then the tourney comes.

Decked in a simple dress, whispering to her brother, Lyanna never dreams that she will, for any reason attract the eye of the Crown Prince, not now when she’s gone out of her way to make herself uninteresting as can be,

But the crown of roses still finds its way in her lap. And for some reason, some gods-given insanity pushes her to question whether the maker shan’t be kinder a second time around.

She runs away with Rhaegar.

Death is not long to come.

* * *

 

The third time she weds Robert.

The winter roses have long since dried and succumbed to their death when she becomes Robert’s bride, on a sunny day. Her eyes do not cast their way to the Crown Prince and his lady wife as she speaks her vows. Not out of a sentiment of longing, or so she tells herself. Rhaegar and she, together, can only bring pain and destruction. Out of pity. Because despite not looking, his stare is burning her.

Roberts clutches her face between his wide hands and presses his lips into her with an obscene amount of zest. There is some cheering, some bawdy jests, a whistle or two.

And then she’s naked and trembling, limbs covered with a thin sheen of sweat and panting. Her husband’s weight presses into her slight frame. Her thighs scream in protest with every jarring thrust of his hips and the pain is like a knife, twisting, pressing deeper and deeper.

_This feels nothing like the loving she still dreams of every one in a while._

She grows used to it.

The first child born is, ironically enough, a daughter. Roberts names her after his long gone lady mother. She looks a Baratheon, with her wide blue eyes and thick curling raven ringlets. A son follows softly on the heels of babe Cassana. He is the child of his father as well.

Twice within the span of the next three years does Lyanna give birth,

Cassana, Ormond, Steffon and Robar; four children as tithe for the life she lives.

Lyanna is thankful, of course, that Robert exercises discretion in his affairs; those she does know of, at least. He does not bring his lovers to parade them before her, nor speaks their name in her presence. Once or twice, women have come bearing bastards in their arms, claiming the father to be her husband. In such moments, Lyanna simply finds her way into an empty chamber so she might weep in peace.

Out of all her children it is Cassana who offers comfort. She comes with her trusty doll and hugs lanky arms around her mother. “Never weep, lady mother,” she begs gently. “All shall be well.”

It is lifting, in the best of manners, to have this comfort.

As the years unfold, Robert’s courtesy chips a little at a time.

By the time Lyanna gives birth to their seventh child, a daughter with, surprisingly enough, her own looks, Robert makes no secret of enjoying the touch of some tavern hostess.

To say that it is love pushing her towards the decision she makes would be a lie. Lyanna does not love Robert. She is fond of him. In the same manner one is fond of one’s trusty quill. Nay. Not at all.

It is a letter come by raven from King’s Landing, announcing the death of the King. Not Aerys, for that one is long since gone. The son.

Though she keeps of him only a memory of bright eyes and pleading lips, Lyanna still feels betrayed. Once more, he has abandoned her. The world is just a tad colder.

It’s the waves she gives herself to. The embrace of the foamy, lapping, salty water wraps around her, dragging onto her heavy skirts, pulling her deeper and deeper still. Lyanna breathes in with the full knowledge of the pain awaiting her. The salt burn the inside of her throat and her lungs cry out in protest. She is deaf to it all, her eyes closing in contentment.

And then there is nothing more.

* * *

 

She is one-and-twenty, a mother for the fourth time and Robert has just returned from his hunting trip, presenting her with a thick wolf pelt. Lyanna is having none of that. “If you would please me, lord husband, than pray stay your visits to the beds of other women.” It’s not so much a request as it is a reproach. Little wonder that, in feeling attacked, Robert lashes back at her.

There are many accusations flung about. She is cold and unloving. He lacks compassion and attention. She never even attempts to please him. He does not try to men fences with her.

Lyanna is certain he does not mean it, at least not in the brutal manner in which he does it, to slap the back of his hand into her face. His ring cuts into her lip and before she knows it, he’s holding her face between his palms, swiping with the pad of his thumb against the trickling lifeblood.

_She never forgives him though._

* * *

 

It takes half a dozen attempts at being a good lady wife and just as many failures for her to figure that she is simply not cut for it.

Consequently, at the feast celebrating the marriage of Prince Viserys and Lord Tywin’s daughter, Lyanna seeks Rhaegar out. She known Elia Martell to be somewhere in the vicinity and she knows very well what path she is choosing. But Lyanna does not care in this very moment.

She is more concerned with catching a glimpse of the King and luring him away.

This she does with considerable ease. Whoever said that maidens await with baited breath the gallant who will sweep them off their feet and seduce them into grand adventures must have been from Essos. Allowing free reign to her impulses, Lyanna accepts every kiss and touch with the fervour born of deep longing.

If she must live this cursed life again and again, she might as well have some enjoyment to call her own.

In a move most indecent, behind the cover of only a single pillar of sturdy marble, skirts lifted, legs wrapped around her lover’s waist, Lyanna begs the gods for loud songs that drown out all else, because her voice, she is certain, is not the proper ladylike volume, nor are her words particularly susceptible to be repeated in polite society.

But by the gods, this is the most alive she’s felt in a long time.

A son is born to her. The unfortunate thing, and despite being only one, ‘tis a grand matter, is that he has the looks of his father.

This is one of the death she remembers throughout the rest of her lifetimes. as she is running after Robert, the squalling babe’s cries tearing at her heart, Lyanna trips on the hem of her skirts, fatigued body unable to hold her weight upright.

She falls over, barely just managing to grab onto her lord husband.

They both roll down the flight of stairs.

Before her neck snaps and the wound on her head bleeds her dry, the image of her infant son’s mangled corpse is all that she sees.

* * *

 

She must be in her early years, the maiden surmises. Her heart is pounding loudly. Her legs feel wobbly and uncertain. The beast staggers towards her, bearing long fangs to her eyes. It snarls. How very appropriate. A wolf should only be slain by another wolf. The wild animal lunges forth, strong claws tearing into her soft flesh even as she stumbles backwards with a bloodcurdling scream of terror. Jagged wide teeth bite into yielding tissue.

* * *

 

Lyanna positively refuses to wed. The attitude has earned her quite a few monikers throughout the Seven Kingdoms. _Icehearted, beastly, frostblooded Lyanna of House Stark, the most demanding of maidens, undeserving of any manner of attention._ She quite agrees with all of them. Their attention is not something she seeks.

If there is a man whose eyes, heart and mind she desires, then she dares not name him.

Her father will no longer speak to her. Despite not having forced her into wedding, nor having kicked her out of her home, Lord Rickard Stark frequently makes his displeasure with her known. Her brothers are easier to lease, for she swears she is happy to them and they leave matters be.

No one ever questions what has hardened her against marriage. All they know is that since the early days of her girlhood, she has proclaimed loud and clear that she shall never wed. There will be no murdered babes, no burning cities and no lost lives this time. But neither will she know the touch of a lover, the sweetness of holding a child to her breast of the fulfilment of watching her young ones grow. If the sacrifice is fair or not, she cannot tell.

But Lyanna spends her days chasing after Brandon’s heir, the boy with Tully looks and Stark attitude. She converse long into the night with her good-sister and never even dreams of what fate brings.

By the time Edwyle is six-and-ten there comes word that trouble waist at the Wall. Naturally this is dismissed with the sanguine reaction of any person with a heedful of wit. “There is no such thing,” Lyanna laughs at the look on young Marna’s face, “as White Walkers.”

The Others are not in agreement.

In spite of the fact that she meets death head-on, with a rusty blade in her hand and meager skill, Lyanna does not feel at all satisfied. Especially when foreign words ring out in her ears, words of condemnation.

* * *

 

She convinces Rhaegar to take her to King’s Landing. It is no easy task, for he has his heart settled on Dorne. But Lyanna begs and cried and promises, using all the tricks she known, and they are many. She offers pleasure and asks for little in return.

He gives in.

Though she can never be sure as to why, Lyanna has her plan. And she will stick to that. If the large decisions bear no consequence, the smaller ones must matter.

This time it’s poison that does her in, not long after her arrival, in a sumptuous bedchamber within the Maidenvault. Her silver spoon falls to the ground and her fingers curl inwards, nails biting into her skin. She feels a hand pressing to her back, someone shakes her frantically.

But the effects of whatever she has ingested is just too strong, too swift, too merciless. She wonders if the gods are feeling amused. They must be, for they keep making her go through this over and over again.

* * *

 

Careful of all food that comes her way, Lyanna manages to survive until the arrival of her brother. Despite all attempts made to end Brandon’s madness, to calm the King’s fury and avert a war, Lyanna finds that the voice of any mistress is only as strong as her use.

By her brother’s actions, she causes trouble. The King will not hear from her, the Queen is unable to aid, Rhaegar must mend fences with his own lady wife now that Lyanna carries his child and the lords of the realm are up in arms at the senseless killings afflicting the Red Keep.

Both she and Elia Martell are left in the care of Jaime Lannister when Rhaegar rides off to the war.

These days are difficult. Not so much for the many demands of the King, not even because her brother spends his time in the dungeons, nor because she is faced with a woman she has never had much cause to take notice of. But because Lyanna finds, and rightly so, that even the best intentions can bring about grand failures.

Elia Martell, despite not offering a shoulder to cry on, is surprisingly cavalier on the matter of her husband’s affair. “A wife may well be displeased,” she says, rocking Aegon’s cradle gently. “But I am first and foremost a princess of this realm. Were I to show any such weakness in the face of our court, I should be shorn to pieces in a matter of moment. You have much to learn, Lyanna Stark.”

And little time to learn it. Very little indeed.

As expected, news comes of Rhaegar’s death.

The King’s madness, in such circumstances, can only flourish. He sees traitors in ever shadow and ruthless malevolence in every face. ‘Tis little wonder that he breaks down is a sobbing mess of sharp screams and violent threats.

Lyanna is made to attend her brother’s execution. The perverse pleasure in the King’s eyes as the flesh melts off of her brother’s bones, fat popping and dripping onto the tiled floors and agonised screams ringing through the air, thick and heavy, makes her sick.

So wrapped up is she in the gruesome scene that it never occurs to her to look away. This is the result of her work. These are the fruits of her labour. This is the punishment of any mortal daring to put themselves against the gods.

For her to go into labour upon the heel of such events is a mockery.

The sword that splits her clean in half is deliverance. 

* * *

 

This time she hides herself in the throne room, the pillar that protects her the only obstacle between herself and the ranting madman. She breaths in slowly, softly, so as to not make a sound. If the King hears her, she is likely to share her brother’s face. And Lyanna does not wish it.

She watches from her place as the youngest of the Kingsguards drives his sword though the King pinning him to his Iron Throne.

An idea blooms in her mind. Half-formed and wild. But it is enough.

With a loud sound she runs towards the murderer and catching him by surprise manages to _impale_ herself upon his sword.

* * *

 

Four-and-ten, with nothing but a few coins and a small dagger, Lyanna runs away into the dark night, never to be heard from again in Westeros.

The ship she manages to board, giving a few coins and some gold here and there, takes her to Braavos. This is the easy part, of course. For in Braavos there is not much need for noble maidens and not much work for soft hands as hers.

Her first few nights are spent in a small abandoned hut. Lyanna would be pleased enough to sleep on the cobblestones without, if only she had something to feed on. But without coin there is no food and her stomach continues to make strange sounds as she lies down.

Pride keeps her from begging well into the first week of her stay. There is water to be found and that calms her stomach some. But before long, she feels fatigued and displeased and so very regretful at having left Winterfell.

She is sitting down in an alleyway when a young boy approaches her. With his golden locks and light blue eyes, he immediately puts her in the mind of Rhaegar. Lyanna watches, mystified, as he holds out a piece of bread towards her, speaking in words she cannot understand. He presses it into her hands and mimics the action of biting, chewing and swallowing.

Bringing the bread to her lips, Lyanna bites into it. It’s old and hard, but solid. Her teeth sinks in, ripping through the thick texture with greed. So hurried are her movements that she even manages to choke on a bite of it, remorseful as she spits it out.

The boy merely nods his head at her and smiled, gesturing for her to sit up. Lyanna does as he bids. Mayhap there is more food to come. But he simply takes her by the wrist and pulls her along, into the main street, through the crowd of people.

There is a matronly woman waiting near a statue. Beside her are two burly men. Lyanna takes a moment to observe the fine linens she wears and shame overcomes her, looking down upon her dusty dress with its tainted front. She must be a sight.

But the middle aged female seems to take no note of that. She eyes Lyanna up and down with a critical stare, says something in her peculiar dialect and nods at the boy. He lets go of Lyanna’s wrist and melts away into the crowd.

“Where you come from?” the woman questions in a broken Westron tongue.

Surprised, Lyanna blinks slowly. “ _From the Kingdoms_ ,” she offers the vague reply.

“Do you work?” At this she merely shakes her head. “Do you wish work?” Of course, she would be a fool not to. Along with the question, however, the woman holds out a piece of fruit. “Work for me. I give food and coin.”

Catching the fruit in her hands, Lyanna nods frantically.

When she finally realises the sort of work she has engaged herself for, ‘tis too late to turn back. And where would she go? Her family no doubt thinks her dead, she knows no one in these parts and she has barely managed to survive. There is no lower level she could possibly sink to.

So Lyanna accepts the warm bath they give her, lets herself be combed and rubbed with scents, puts on shimmery gauze and red paint on her lips and shed the last vestiges of the Northerner lady gone on an adventure.

It is not the life she’d dreamt of, but this is all she has.

When a Lysene merchants steps into her bedchamber, his young jovial face holding an air of curiosity, Lyanna sees her chance. She takes it with both hands, embracing the youth, drowning him with the affection her kind is known to give, She puts to use all her skill, does not shy from any act while holding timid front for his eyes. She even goes as far as to tell him her story.

Impressionable as young minds are, the boy thinks himself her saviour when he buys her off and takes her to Lys.

Here, free of foul potions, Lyanna bears him a son and acts his staunch companion through much of their lives.

And yet, not even this far away can she ever be free.

For winter still finds her.

* * *

 

She has lost count of how many lives she’s been through at this point. But somehow Lyanna finds herself in the Red Keep with an injured Jaime Lannister at her feet. Flames burn bright all around them, their eerie green light a curse. Dragging the charred man to the best of her abilities, Lyanna manages to find an alcove. She places his cloak upon them and waits. And waits. And waits. It feels like a thousand years before anyone comes. But when they do, to her great relief, it is not Robert’s men.

Rhaegar reigns victorious, but that is not to say he does not know defeat. His poor lady wife, called before the King as he set the whole keep ablaze, was unfortunately unable to find salvation. Her children have turned to dust along with her. This is the end, Lyanna knows.

In her mind, the claim has ground, for Dorne will not forgive this. In a bid to escape the executioner’s axe, the one she feels pressing into her skin even now, Lyanna slips the nightshade into Rhaegar’s wine along with a last kiss. She never tells him she loves him, not even as his eyes widen, understanding dawning upon him. But Lyanna presses his hand against her waist. “ _Understand_.” That is all.

When asked, she claims the child to be Ser Jaime’s. The boy is not long of this world as is.

In the wake of Robert’s death, the existence of no more Targaryens and little protest, Stannis Baratheon takes the throne and Cersei fro his queen.

The supposed father of her child dies neither confirming, nor denying her _lie_.

And Lyanna herself follows shortly after, upon what is most surprising, the birth of a daughter.

* * *

 

For the first time she finds herself the first bride of Rhaegar. Far from the naïve girl who dies seeking the promise of a brother, Lyanna, even at her tender age of two-and-ten, regards the man before her with just enough coldness to put him on edge. What purpose does wedding him serve now, she wonders, when there is no veil over her eyes?

But he gazes kindly upon her and asks after some manner of activity she enjoys. Lyanna offers a distracted answer, pondering the benefits of accepting. “If I wed you, Your Grace, will I be allowed to remain in my father’s home until I am flowered?”

Taken aback, he stares at her in silence for a few moments. “I am certain that something can be worked out.”

_So they wed._

The promise he makes her is forgotten and Lyanna leaves it be. It had been a whim at any rate, not a serious consideration. She had merely been wondering how far she could bend him. Dragonstone is not a bad place to live. Remote and quiet, reminiscent of Winterfell is that manner, it offers her the solitude she needs and her young age sees her lord husband otherwise engaged.

She remains with the stone dragons through the seasons, receiving every now and again letters from the man she has wedded. The Tourney of Harrenhal she does not attend, but hears he has crowned the daughter of the host. She even chooses to keep behind the walls at Rhaegar’s arrival.

But the years pass. She flowers and bleeds and can no longer keep herself detached. Duty is duty.

He puts a child in her with ease she had been counting on and Lyanna is pleased, though not surprised, when Jaehaerys arrives into the world. She insists upon the name of her choosing even when Rhaegar expresses the desire to name him Aegon. He gives in by the end of an effusive tirade.

Lyanna gives birth to two more children, a set of twins, a boy and a girl. They are Aeryn and Aerea, the finishing blow to Rhaegar’s dreams. He never says a thing to her, but Lyanna can see him looking up into the starry skies and knows he wonders upon comets with red tails and prophecies.

He takes her hand on such occasions, his thumb pressing into the back of her hand, drawing patters upon her skin, symbols she does not know, nor wishes to.

Their children grow. Winter comes. The realm is thrown into chaos.

Winterfell receives them with open arms, Brandon now lord of the keep.

Her brother and her husband get on surprisingly well where their effort is united. It sometimes makes Lyanna wonder. But her mind cannot linger on what might have beens for she has seen many of them, too many to count.

Instead she sits herself to Rhaegar’s left and listens to the carefully laid plans. It sounds as if it could work.

Might be the gods will spare them.

_They do not._

* * *

 

 _This time she gives herself to Rhaegar more to anger the gods than anything else_. In the home of her father, she slips into the bed of their guest and spends the hours of the night in his embrace. She is curious what will come of this. Not a wedding, for he has his lady wife awaiting his return, yet she wonders.

Rhaegar tries to convince her to join him in King’s Landing afterwards. She refuses. He tries to pressure her into accepting, threatening to tell her father of what has gone on. Upon those words Lyanna reminds him who is guest and who is host.

“Do not think to force me,” she says, a smile upon her lips. _The wolf can only be a partner._

And he doesn’t. In exchange, Lyanna promises that she will see him again.

She never does.

What Lyanna does manage is to hide away in the crypts when her blood no longer comes. But forced into this potion she has no aid when it comes the time to birth her child.

So Lyanna dies alone, in the dark, in a pool of gore, a half-born thing stuck between worlds.

* * *

 

It all seems very familiar.

She stands at the high window, eyes upon her ironclad husband, waiting, as all the others do. His voice carries through the vast yard, the words of encouragement spilling past his lips, so as to aid these men. These brave and unfortunate souls that have come here to war.

Lyanna is half-certain they shall lose. They always do. She has found recently, sometime after her death at the hands of a very upset Robert, that while people never remember anything, stone and paper do. The scars she’s left into a weirwood can still be seen to this day, although she has died a hundred times past. In the spirit of her discovery, Lyanna has begun to write down some parts, facts and decisions she finds important. Mayhap, at some point, a brighter mind might look upon them and find some solution to save them all.

The men ride off.

They never return.

Winter embraces all.

* * *

 

Carelessly she forgets to place her writing in a chest, away from prying eyes. Lyanna tries to take the papers from her son, but Jaehaerys gazes at her with dark eyes filled with fury. “Let me explain,” Lyanna attempts to reach him. “It is not as you think.

In the middle of wartime, he cannot mean to confront her upon this matter. But her child shows no signs of stopping. Instead, he pulls back when she tries to reach him. “Do you even know who I am?” his voice is hard and rough.

“You are my beloved son,” she replies out of habit.

Jaehaerys grins. “Am I? Or am I one of your sons? What about your Lysene son and Ormond, Steffon, Robar, along with Stevron? Are they your beloved sons? Would father like to know them?”

In the ensuing struggle it is a fall that takes her life, head smashing against a hard edge. 

The papers are strewn upon the dusty floors. Lyanna wastes little time in giving them to the flames, a painful memory of Jaehaerys’ rage still in her mind.

They face winter again.

* * *

 

She cries and fusses, does not shy of begging and won’t hear any refusal. Lyanna learns with this that if she is insistent enough, if the gods’ grace is with her and if father has reached his second cup of wine, she is ever more likely to find him in an agreeable mood. Or even one which facilitates a quick escape by agreement. Of course, it can only help that she is five years of age and considered none too bright.

While it is not in every life that she experiences childhood anew, the she-wolf can safely say she never misses it. Children have an innocence to them, a lack of suspicion and tremendous belief in the power of the self. Her own optimism has dies out sometime between her stint in Essos and her stay in the crypts of Winterfell. What she does have, however, is her wit and knowledge. And chances. Those she has in spades.

Mother picks her up, shushing her gently. “Now, Lyanna. Your lord father has already agreed to the demands. ‘Tis time to let him rest.”

And let his rest she does. Lyanna is led away to her bedchamber, the one she no longer shares with Benjen. For some reason, mother surviving Benjen’s birth means that she and her youngest brother drift apart ever so slowly. A long time ago, in one of those foggy memories she is not sure of entirely, a young man claims that she has always been like a mother to him. It’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight record of all these fragments, especially when she can not write them down.

But Lyanna has decided upon another method. She will leave clues. There is only so much to be done in these circumstances. If ink and quill are of no aid, the nature itself should be. For if not this every nature keeping her alive, whatever is it that pulls her back from the gates of the underworld every single time.

A night of rest is followed by a busy day, the occupants of the keep bustling to and fro, each servant and wench with their own business. Lyanna has been draped in her sturdiest dress, a pair of woollen breeches that are a tad too large and her trusty boots. Nan does not hesitate to clasp a dark cloak around her shoulders.

With that, alongside her father and his men, Lyanna participates to her thousandth first hunt, trying her best to seem excited at the prospect. At her age she has not been allowed to handle a bow yet and will likely have to wait a year more. When she does, Lyanna is fairly certain she will amaze father with her skill. In that event, a twinge of pity for Benjen arises. He stands no chance.

Indented upon the dark bark of a show-covered towering giant, to Lyanna’s great relief, she can make out a symbol she has written a few lifetimes past.

The book must have remained buried as well, she reasons. Who would dig near the roots of a random tree.

* * *

 

On the twenty-seventh day of the two hundred six-and-seventh year after Aegon’s landing, Lyanna visits Lannisport. More accurately, she provides part of the public to the feats of knightly valour occasioned by the birth of Prince Viserys. For her part, knowing very well who the victor will be, she is more interested in Barristan Selmy. She reasons in her mind that it is best when only one person suffer over many others suffering as well. And in any event, she does not plan his death, just something that will allow him no involvement in the close events that shall shake the realm when it so comes the time.

It is all rather simple. Stealthy and without much effort. All it takes is a well-placed cut to a thick leather strap, on the interior side, so as to not attract attention. Then she waited. Lyanna looks upon the two men, raising their lances. She does not slouch in her seat, something she might have been tempted to do lifetimes past. The many years of sitting thrones and high seats have cured her posture of any bent and curvature, much to the delight if her mother.

Her eyes follow not the Prince’s horse. Rhaegar Targaryen shall win. She remembers the stories of how the young man has unhorsed his opponent. With any luck, the force of the blow will be enough to fully break the strap when Selmy falls to his side. Such a fall should at least break a hand or leg. Whatever will keep him in King’s Landing during the acts of rebellion.

To the delight of the onlookers, the Prince manages a direct blow to his opponent’s chest.

As predicted, the impact sends the other knight reeling. Lyanna’s eyes grow wide, fingers twisting in the thick folds of her dress. She has already half risen from her seat for a better look.

Crushing disappointment swiftly follows. She must have not cut deep enough, for while Selmy does tilt to his side he never leaves his saddle. A flare of annoyance overtakes her senses. Can something be more unfulfilling? The horde of people cheers, taken with the offering given for their viewing pleasure. It helps, as it must, that the Prince is a charming sort.

Lyanna sighs, her plan a failure. She sits back down upon the bench. There is one more match left. And knowing the outcome, she finds that her interest dwindles. Upon that note, she burrows into her father’s side, making a small sound of discomfort in hopes of alerting him of her desire to leave. In another lifetime, she will watch Rhaegar lose to Ser Dayne. When there is the time for it.

Rickard Stark, observant as he is in such moments, simply sends her off with Nan.

* * *

 

There is only one more hope for this. And though she’d not wished to follow such a course, Lyanna is left without a choice. The gods ever love mocking their subjects.

The path is dark and the sweet scent of early summer fills the air. A tepid breeze winds its way through gnarled branches of mighty trees, the rustling leaves a symphony to the attentive ear. Upon the heavy sky hangs the crescent moon, its bitten shape offers little in the way of guidance. Lyanna does not worry.

Westeros is not unknown to her. These woods are no danger. If ever there is something to steal her away from the hands of life, she will simply return. Thus the maiden makes her way through the waves of darkness, upon hills of short, young grass blades. She moves through the night, a lone traveller in search of wonders, answers and other unfathomable matters.

All life is hidden from her eyes. Not even an owl signs its nightly song. All the better. There is something calming about being alone in the vast sea of green. There is nothing to push and prod her towards any outcome; there is no expectation she finds placed upon her shoulders here. And to her delight, none could ever do so.

Lyanna toys with the idea of remaining here. For a few years at least. But then, just because there is no one here at night, does not mean that no one ever passes by. Lannisport is great and bustling a town. If she remains, there are so many fates that could befall her, some of which she does not wish to repeat. So the maiden hurries along, picking up the pace, her legs eating away at the distance with awkward, wide strides.

Upon her breath coming in short gasps, Lyanna finds what she has been looking for. Among a few other tents, there is one that stands out. By its width and girth one should think it some king’s campaign tent. But nay, ‘twould surprise many no doubt, to hear that within lives a woman. A manner of woman, as it were, that others both fear and revere. Maggy, as she is known to the lot of them, is a scraggly thing more suited to scaring babes to their beds than making predictions upon the future of some man or another.

Now Lyanna would happily keep away from this one. She knows that the days only blend together in a seemingly endless, painful wait for the ascribed fate. But this once, just this once, for the sake of the realm, she must.      

The tent flap is, to the emerging curiosity of Lyanna, half open, as if waiting for guests. A faint light flickers within, one which can barely be made out. Whether it is coincidence or knowledge, the Trident has already been crossed. Bringing herself closer with uneasy steps, Lyanna makes her way into the tent, a greeting upon her lips.

“Another one?” an exasperated voice groans. From within the shadows a woman steps out. “Want you your morrows told as well, child?” she questions in a manner indicative of mockery. Lyanna gives a nod of the head and shudders at hearing murmurs of lambs led to their slaughter. Not so much out of fear of dying. It is just the reaction of any living thing threatened with the looming, impending fate awaiting. “Sit,” the maegi orders.

The scent of cheap wax devoured by flames is wafting about unpleasantly. Lyanna spies a knife upon a low stool, its blade stained a copper colour.

She holds her hand out, as if expecting Lyanna to know what to do. The maiden hesitantly puts her own hand forth, smooth skin settling upon rougher flesh. The metal glints and in the next moment her skin is pierced, a small scratch appearing on her hand. It’s the middle of her palm and she rather thinks that this is revenge for disturbing the maegi’s night than necessity. There is little pain, to be sure, so she lets it go and pretends ignorance.

The other woman’s thumb swipes at the wetness. The maegi tastes the blood and hums softly, her voice carrying through the tent. “Your question, girl.”

“How am I going to die?” The query is released in the hesitant manner the student stands before the maester. Her frame trembles lightly in wait of the answer that can shape this life she finds herself into or tear it apart.

The maegi grins. She places the knife back on the stool and snorts. “You are an enigma, child. There is nothing I can see in your morrows about death.”

“Nothing?” How is that possible? Nothing is a vast answer. This nothingness may comprise thousands and thousands of particulars. “Nothing,” Lyanna repeats.

From without a cracking sound penetrates through the relative silence. This shakes her out of the reverie. Lyanna stands to her feet, legs newborn colt-unsure. “How does one fights against nothing?”

* * *

 

There is a dead girl in a well and the whole of the gathering is whispering about it. This takes second place only to the proposal made by the Hand of the King. Proposal which has been rebutted, to the best of Lyanna’s knowledge.

She stands before the door of Lord Lannister’s solar, eyes upon the unmoving guard, praying that whatever these two men speak of will not come to pass. Her wish to have at least one of her lives count crumbles before her eyes.

And there is a dead girl in a well, her body rotting by now. It could have been her. She was out and about upon the same night of Lyanna’s visit to the maegi. Once again she has slipped through the fingers of the Stranger, or whatever morbid force keeps this world on the verge of death, once again. The cost of it has yet to become clear.  

The guard looks down at her, his face relaxing slightly. He does not dare smile, for it would never be forgiven. Lyanna remains as she is, incapable and unwilling to engage any sort of exchange; all of it resides beyond her limits.

The door finally opens 

She comes into her father’s bedchamber so that she might find the latest letter from her lady mother. As soon as she hears steps from without, she hides under the bed, a massive thing dominating the room with its imposing presence. She would have hidden in a chest if it were feasible.

Her father’s boots are recognisable. The others she does not, however. The quality of them is good though, so she supposes it is another lord. Her heart hammers, droplets of perspiration forming upon her forehead with the eager rush of blood.

“Nay, I should indeed be glad to have your likes, my lord, among those giving me counsel.” Her surprise is masked with a quick succession of blinks. “But the North is so remote; its ties to the Crown are rather thin. Would you not agree?” Imputation has ceased to be the point of the conversation, if ever it was. This is persuasion, might be even manipulation.

“If Your Majesty believes so, there must be merit in the consideration.” But her father, as ever, is at a loss as to what decision to make. Who would dare imply that the King listen to them.

“An easy solution; that is what I propose.” The boots move along the floors. Lyanna holds her breath, resisting the urge to drag her body forth. The maegi might have seen nothing, yet there might be hope. Intricate are the roads of the gods. “You have an unattached daughter, Lord Stark. I have an unattached son.”

Once more, Lyanna must bite her tongue to keep from making any sounds. Her father is clearing his throat. “My daughter,” the man begins, “if Your Majesty thinks it fitting.” She thanks the heaves silently for whatever rivalry thrives between Tywin Lannister and their King. This is better than the horse’s strap and certainly more manageable.

* * *

 

Newly flowered, Lyanna kicks her foot impatiently. The seamstress taking her measurements prickles her lightly to which she can only make a disgruntled sound. “If you would keep still, my lady,” the woman says, hands moving to Lyanna’s wait to still her. “It would be of tremendous aid.”

But she does not wish to keep still. Inhabiting the body of what is arguably a child yet makes her restless. Her mind might well fly ahead of her, thinking to drag the body on this long journey, but that is not feasible. At least not yet.

The woman returns to her work, the piece of string circling Lyanna’s waist. She wonders what sort of garment she is to sport this time. Involuntarily, she shifts once more, upsetting the measurements of the seamstress.

“My lady!” An apologetic smile is all that she can give. No doubt she will be scolded for this once mother speaks to the woman. For the moment, however, she is much too fidgety to settle down.

She’s already planned it all. Down to the last detail. And Lyanna knows that this time, there will be no failure to crown her efforts.

* * *

 

The Queen’s glacial stare warms her to the cockles of her heart. There is nothing like a good harsh glance to make one feel welcomed. Not that Lyanna expected as much. She knows very well that the pact between King and Warden of the North has robbed the Queen of the chance to tie House Targaryen to House Martell once more.

If she could bring herself to care, Lyanna supposes she would experience a fragment of that disappointment. In light of her own plan though, she feels confident that this small sacrifice is well worth the outcome.

What she does not count on, is that being a choice of the King might well be more than she’d bargained for. With disturbing results.

Queen Rhaella is not the only one harbouring suspicions. Her son shares a similar view if one were to go by the look he slants her way. Those eyes, eyes that Lyanna never thought would light with anything other than love upon her visage, make her shudder. One of the dangers, the maiden realises, of eliminating a more important phase in the process which has to this point become so familiar to her. She has picked the wrong tourney; humourless as the thought is, it nearly brings a smile to her face.

Love has gone missing.

Much used to being the object of affection in the eyes of this man, Lyanna swiftly deflates at the cold welcome; never having thought to be on the receiving end of his apathy. There is a difference, after all, between being tolerated for the sake of one’s position and being given affection. A difference she has learned.

Nonetheless, affection or lack of it shan’t put an end to this wedding. So Lyanna squares her shoulders, hand lingering upon her father’s arm and marches forth like all good soldiers would. In this battle she shall be the winner; that is a vow, one made to herself in spite of her less than stellar results. 

Ushered into the bridal bedchamber, Lyanna crawls atop the bed and burrows her way beneath the furs. Rhaegar should follow swiftly enough, for all she knows that for some time her role is to be a lady wife in name. Neither the appropriate age for child-bearing, nor regarded as a particularly important player of the courtly game yet, she must resign herself to a period of gaining allies and stabbing tentatively at these intricate matters which have just started to reader their head.

Anticipation can be found in abundant amounts. The maiden waits patiently for what will follow, her heart resting easy.

The door opens and is closed. She does not look towards it, having opted to turn on her side. Lyanna hears the telltale signs of movement followed by a deep sigh. The next she knows, the mattress dips beneath the additional weight. There is no movement on her part for fear of frightening away the quarry. A good hunter learns as much from observing as the knight from duelling.

And Lyanna plans to be the very best hunter.

So on, so forth lives goes, falling into expected predictability. The sort that remains mind numbingly frustrating in its lack of variety offered.

She’s always been told that the King’s court is a place of danger. The only danger Lyanna has encountered up to this point is that of falling asleep in full view of her noble audience. Her perceived youth can well account for that though.

* * *

 

Word is that Lord Darklyn is neglecting his duties towards the Crown. His lady wife is said to encourage the behaviour. And so it begins. 

* * *

 

For some reason her lord husband, wretched man that he is, lets go of his harp long enough to let her know she is to be packed off to Dragonstone. Now Lyanna is far from naïve in this. She knows fully well what plot is being weaved here.

“Do you not care that I would be miserable there on my own?” she questions, the thin needle she’s holding momentarily stopping mid-fall. “If you would send me away, lord husband, then let me go back to my own people.” It is with a precise goal in mind that she plays the fool in this. Lyanna forces a few droplets to run down her cheeks. “Am I not worthy of even so little?”

Of course, he is not speaking of what she is implying. It would take more than an unconsummated act to put her aside and she rather suspects that for the time being he has need of the North’s support.

“Lady wife,” comes the tart reply of the man whose exasperation seems to have reached its peak, “you will not deny me in this. You are leaving for Dragonstone is a moon turn and that is it.”

Good. For added affect Lyanna scoffs, as if she does not believe his words. “I will not.”

To that, he gives a dismissive nod.

Bane of his existence that she is, Lyanna is fairly certain that he is only to glad to have her on Dragonstone. And she too is glad for it. This distance between them, much needed for more than one reason, provides her with a chance she has been waiting for.

For the moment there are no spiders among the courtiers and Lyanna would keep it so. She will just need a few helping hands. With any luck, the distance between King’s Landing and Dragonstone will work in her favour for that.

* * *

 

Father responds to her first raven sent from Dragonstone with alacrity. Lyanna gad expected less of a desire to cooperate from him on this matter, but she suspects that the man knows very well the wrath of the Lion is not to be trifled with. 

Rhaegar allows that she might find a companion that is to her liking.

* * *

 

The King has not escaped capture. Lyanna, barely able to contain her relief, spends a whole day within her bedchamber. Presumably ‘tis to mourn the ill fate that has befallen her good-father. Still, ‘tis better to linger abed when one is in danger of humming inappropriately cheery tunes.

* * *

 

Cersei Lannister seems both awed and disgruntled. Nonetheless, on the order of her lord father, there is not much she can do. Lyanna bites her tongue to keep from reminding the other that there is no punishment to be endured. She supposes there will never come a time when she is anything but slightly apprehensive towards the lioness, but for now, Cersei has her uses.

“I know ‘tis not the more cheerful of places, but Dragonstone is a good home,” Lyanna continues to speak. Dragonstone is appropriately nightmares in the right circumstances, but then again, her own bedchamber in Winterfell, according to Old Nan, lies over ancient burial grounds. What are a few gruesome statues to that? “You shall grow used to it in no time.”

“I am certain I shall.” Or she will die trying. Lyanna gives her a thin smile, locking their arms together. Cersei accepts that with more grace than she’d counted on.

“Now tell me, my lady, whatever do you think of this dreadful situation the realm finds itself in?”

* * *

 

_I would caution care in the case of Lord Lannister’s daughter. The King remains in custody within the clutches of Lord Darklyn and our Hand is becoming less patient. I firmly believe that bloodshed is the likely outcome we are looking at._

The piece of parchment folds back onto itself and Lyanna throws it to the flames. If Selmy succeeds in freeing the King, which he will, barring any intervention of the gods, then she supposes only poison is left for her. It must be something strong, something that will take the madman’s life. Something quick.

The gods have failed her once more. Or she has failed them, whichever is the more accurate.

There is a witch in the woods. Not the great Maggy. A quiet, unassuming thing that Lyanna heard of quite by accident. She pays in silver for the woman to keep quiet and in copper for the vile stuff pressed into her hand.

She wonders at her failure in the face of such certainty that she would succeed.

“King’s Landing is far more suitable,” Cersei says, no doubt hoping that Lyanna will wish to remain there as well. Lyanna wonders if Rhaegar will perhaps take this woman to bride after she is gone.

Does it even matter?

* * *

 

Her lord husband pats her hand with a gentleness she’s not felt from him yet. It must be the quiet demeanour she has adopted that inspires it. For the sake of appearances, she leans ever so slightly into him.

“I did not expect to see you so much changed,” he says, fingers tracing lines on her skin.

“As long as Your Grace is pleased.”

Of course he should find any form of pleasure in her company when she is about to die.

* * *

 

She pours wine from the carafe into the King’s chalice and to appease him, she drinks first. Seeing as the poison acts within a span of minutes, the unknowing victim is pleased enough to accept the gesture of his good-daughter.

* * *

 

This is all too much.

She kneels before the weirwood tree, a desperate plea on her lips. _Help, help me!_ She fears speaking the words out loud. What if the gods laugh? What if they turn their backs on her and leave her to her fate? She’s done everything from spiting them to consigning them to a dark corner to be forgotten. She’s not quite a child still and not truly a woman yet. “This has to be the last.” Spread too thin, she frays at the ends and it scares her. It scares her so because her mind has begun taking her down dark paths.

Snow crunches behind her and she starts, steeling herself against the desire to turn. “The last what?” It is at this point that she jumps, turning, eyeing the tall figure standing before her. It does not escape her that once again she has turned from the gods.  It’s the eyes, so full of compassion, but lacking any understanding.

Like the wild beast that she is, Lyanna steps back with a metaphorical snarl, expression morphing into a frown. “You should not be here.”

“Neither should you.” He ignores her protective layers and steps around them to lay his cloak upon her shoulders.

Tears fall without her willing them. In spite of that, she can see him clearly once more.

* * *

 

She bristles and walks past him, doing her best to ignore the roses. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” She doesn’t want to explain all of this to him, that every single time they meet, all their loves, missed opportunities and avoided chances, all of it can only end in death. After all, everything ends in death. Is this some manner of curse?

“I am determined, lady, to find out what is eating at you.” She wonders if it’s because there are women he cannot save. Is that why he is so bent on rescuing her, as some form of redemption? Well she doesn’t want to redeem him. “Tell me.”

She breaks. “You will die, don’t you understand that, you stupid clod!” Words come out without her meaning to and it’s all blame and shame as the torrent pours forth. She lays claim to every single death she remembers, all the loves they shared and didn’t, all the children she knows are now beyond her reach and all the crimes she’s ever committed. If that doesn’t convince him to leave her be, she thinks that there might be a chance. She tells him about Lord Lannister’s ambition, outcomes of tourneys and defiances.

Predictably enough, once silence falls he sits up. Lyanna turns away and pays no mind to the slamming door. Roses are wilting on her table and she needs to throw them out.

* * *

 

Maester Walys pats her head gently, as if she were some spooked filly in need of comfort. “I am confident ‘tis all the result of those odd dreams,” he says, stepping away long enough to retrieve whatever potion he thinks will cure her. Lyanna drinks without complaint. “There we go, my lady, and now aught that will help you sleep.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t see Rhaegar before he leaves. Father won’t allow it, and might be that is for the best. Lyanna is confined to her chambers, given plenty of scrolls and tomes to pursue, lots of food and an abundance of creature comforts. This is the happiest she’s been in a long time.  

She hears through the grapevine that the King is growing enraged at Lord Darklyn and his continual defiance. He doesn’t know the half of it, she thinks, sipping upon her drink with great care. Lyanna hums to herself and tried to fend off all thoughts of offering any words upon the matter.

* * *

 

“How did you know?” Father insists upon knowing. Remaining impassive in the face of his questions is not a solution. “There must be someone who let something slip.”

“I told you, lord father, I have lived through these very happenings many times. Lord Darklyn will keep His Majesty hostage. Ser Barristan Selmy will rescue the man and he will go on to plague the realm for many years.”

“How?”

“The gods only know.”      

She doesn’t remember all of her lives vividly. Nevertheless there are some which still pop out of the tapestry. She tells her father about the babe at the bottom of the stairs, she talks of her many unhappy marriages and watches the man’s face twist in disbelief. She’d have the same reaction. She continues to speak of it. Though he cannot comprehend, she fears she can’t stop. This is the first person who actually listens. Or as close to it.

Once she’s empty they sit in silence, her feet not yet touching the ground as his shifts slightly. Part of her cannot help but wonder what he is going to do with all the information he’s gathered. Part of her wishes he will simply further isolate them.

* * *

 

“A child shouldn’t be here.” She looks up into the face of one Arthur Dayne and nearly laughs. But doesn’t; it’s enough that there are as many people who think her barmy that there are. “Your Grace, it is dangerous for her.”

“Leave it be, Arthur. Lord Stark, I wish a moment with her.” Visibly uncomfortable, her father looks to her. Lyanna nods her head, preparing herself for what is to come.

“What do I do?” She starts. Even her father had some questions regarding her knowledge. But here the Prince is, trusting her to not screw him over. _This is the last time._ The decision is made without much hesitation. If the gods keep playing this game, she will simply retreat into herself.

“What do you wish to do?” Their stares meet and hold and she nods her head after a few moments. It is decided.

* * *

 

Lyanna sits by Ser Barristan’s side, watching the man sleep. She did her best to make certain the amount he’d been given would not affect him beyond sleep. Even so she cannot be certain. It is a potent mixture. She wonders what will happen now. Her eyelids droop. Lyanna yawns. Barristan Selmy will likely not thank her for this intervention. She’s robbed him of the chance of a lifetime. All that she can do is hope he will understand, in time, that her intentions, if not her methods, were the best.

* * *

 

“It’s never truly the same.” She’s yet stuck in the body of a child. It seems strange to be having such a conversation with him. “The first time, you know, I truly was in love. In a way, I’ve always tried to recapture that feeling.” She twists the edge of her skirts between her fingers as though to wring out moisture from it. “But you are not him and to some degree I am not that Lyanna.”

It’s interesting that he should ask after such matters. There are so many other questions he could seek an answer to. “Why does that matter, Your Grace?”

“I want to know if there is a chance.” She frowns, leaning back against her seat. Her fingers drop the hem. “That you will try again.” She can’t decide if he’s being selfish for asking or if she is the selfish one for agreeing. She knows how it ends, after all; she might be the selfish one here.

“I don’t know if I can take more of it.” In the end she agrees because she told herself she would. One last time.

* * *

 

She is still fairly young when they wed. Unlike the many other times, however, she embraces it wholeheartedly.  There is no sceret between them, no darkness clinging to the edges waiting to shallow them whole. Lyanna smiles at her husband throughout the feast.

Once they are alone, sitting together on the edge of the bed, she leans her head against his shoulder and thinks how wonderful it is to finally be this free. “Tired?” he asks. His voice is a mere whisper breaking against the cliffs of silence.

“Not anymore.” And it is true. It’s not like the love that first Lyanna had for him. This is altogether stronger, more durable. She lifts her head from its spot and stares into his eyes. “I hope I never give you cause to regret this choice.” By the same token she hopes that she herself will never come to regret this. Perhaps it is fitting that the end come in such a manner. She greeted the beginning with such enthusiasm. The first few lives marked by an insatiable thirst for adventure, relief that no choice matters, that there will never be consequences. She greets the end with the same, glad that every action has its ripples, that it will all mark her. Or so she hopes.

* * *

 

All in all it is a quiet marriage. She sits in her chambers, embroidery in her lap, a circle of chattering women about her, speaking of husbands, homes and children. Lyanna looks down to her own bulging middle. “It will be so nice to hear the sound of little feet running along these halls,” one of her companions comments. “Your Majesty hopes for a son.”

She’s been to the sept many a time in these last few moon turns, on her knees, praying. Mostly she begs the gods for a healthy babe. “That would be most convenient,” she says after a moment of considering her answer. She is no stranger to the pains of childbirth. After so many lifetimes, however, she does not fear it. It is simply part of this never-ending cycle. “His Majetsy would be best pleased to have a son, I know.”

* * *

 

She writes everything she remembers down. All the sordid details. Some of them get jumbled together, she apologises to whoever will read this knowing that some of it truly makes little sense. There is so much time she has on her hands now, waiting for the child to come. She remembers another boy lashing out at her angrily. Might be if she explains early on, that there are some things she cannot control, that no matter how much she tries there are things she cannot take back.    

One hand brushes over Myrish lace and carefully stitched beads. “One day I hope to give this all to you with a proper explanation. Mayhap we can avoid another tragedy.” One of her women opens the door with a gently reminder that she is waited upon. Lyanna pauses mid-motion and looks at the girl over her shoulder, wondering if she will ever live her life again and again until she grows to loathe it and love it in equal measure.  

* * *

 

“Does it ever bother you?” He is the one kneeling while she sits in a small chair by his side, her ungainly form hardly permitting her to do the same. Rhaegar looks up at her with a contemplative stare. He pats her wool-clad thigh, not offering an answer right away. Her hand slips atop his, stroking gently.

“Not as much as it used to.” She makes a muted sound of agreement and pushes no further knowing that if he wishes to say more he will. Rhaegar returns to his praying. His father’s urn is tightly sealed.

* * *

 

Aegon sleeps with his head lying comfortably in her lap.

* * *

 

Winter comes.

* * *

 

It is the first time she sees the red priestess. The words are lost on her as she grieves for her dead husband, but her son watches the woman with undisguised attention. Lyanna leans in to rest her head a moment atop the dead man’s shoulder. This truly must be the end of it.

* * *

 

The sword thrusts through her middle, impaling her against the seat. She reaches out for her son with a gentle smile, doing her best to wipe away his tears. Her insides burn with pain. “It will all be well.” Blood drips, soaking into the wool of her skirts, gathering in a pool at her feet. The last thing she sees is the blade igniting in flames before her vision blurs.  

* * *

 

The fog thins until she can make out shapes just ahead of her. Lyanna picks up her bloodied skirts, stepping over puddles of gore as she hurries to reach whoever might be there. Unfortunately for her, in trying to avoid the blood, she slams into the sturdy form of a towering figure. Arms wound around her, tugging her upwards, steadying her. She finds herself looking up into familiar eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you.” His hands move to her shoulders, squeezing.

Here she can remember it all, much too clearly and the weight presses her down, bringing tears to her eyes. “I thought you’d hate me.” She would have, were she in his place.

“I’ve tried.” It’s an uncomfortable though. Her family has never been a choice, neither have her many children. “You’re not that easy to hate.”

“Even now?” He breaks away from her and the fog swirls about them, splitting slowly to reveal a set of towering doors. Rhaegar steps back just as one of them opens with a squeak, indicating the hinges could use some oiling.   

He holds out his hand. “Especially now.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original story this was under will be used to post the promised variations.


End file.
